Quickly just wanted to mention that I made a mistake regarding the names of the extra security detail in chapter 43, and that has been resolved. Thanks :)
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Sunday, June 12 2011 - very early morning (about half past midnight)
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Sawyer rides up in the elevator with us. I am blissfully exhausted, floating on air. I don't remember ever attending a party like that-with a woman that I'm crazy about by my side. It was spectacular to see her enjoy everything, and to watch the expression on her face as the extravagant fireworks show filled the night sky. It was a look of awe, almost child-like.
I'm still gloating internally over how the spanking went down-that it was enjoyable, and controlled, and safe. I realize that I have to be careful, regarding these things. If I want to change, a lot about my lifestyle needs to change-in fact the whole 'Dom' part, I'm beginning to understand, is what has to go. If I'm to make a life with Anastasia-which I really would love-I have to give it up.
I'm beginning to realize that it's like an addiction that I'm going to have to detox myself from. But then, haven't I already detoxed myself? Isn't it just the resisting going back now?
The elevator jolts to a stop on my floor, and it interrupts my reverie.
"Come," I say, taking her hand as she lifts her head off my shoulder, "I'll put you to bed."
The three of us step into the foyer, Sawyer slightly ahead, and immediately halt as his hand flies up.
My heart launches into high gear, adrenaline bursting through my veins, and unconsciously I tighten my hold on Ana's hand.
What is it?
Sawyer mutters briefly into his sleeve, where his communication device is concealed.
"Will do, T." He turns to face us. "Mr. Grey," he reports, "The tires on Ms. Steele's Audi have been slashed and paint thrown over it."
Holy fuck! Leila!
It's the only possibility, and I feel the blood drain from my face when I realize she could still be in the area, even in my apartment, with a gun; Ana, unprotected, at my side. God forbid anything happen to her...
"Taylor is concerned that the perp may have entered the apartment and may still be there. He wants to make sure."
"I see," I can only croak, "What's Taylor's plan?"
"He's coming up the service elevator with Ryan and Reynolds. They'll do a sweep, then give us the all clear. I'm to wait with you, sir."
"Thank you, Sawyer." I pull Ana close, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. "This day just gets better and better..." I sigh, brushing my nose against her ear, relieved that she's safe, for now, and that something was noticed before we even stepped into the apartment.
I'm beginning to trust the new security a bit more.
As I stand there, I realize that if Leila is here, she may want to talk to me-isn't that what happened last time? I will not make the same mistake again, in not being there. I need to be with Taylor, and to be available if they find her. To ensure that she doesn't escape again, to ensure that we get her into care quickly and efficiently, so that she's no longer a risk to anyone, herself and more importantly, Ana.
This thought overrules the assurance that she wouldn't possibly be able to apprehend access. New measures have been taken, the doors are being watched. It's a near impossibility that she would have found a way in. Taylor is most likely being over dramatic.
But if there is that chance... I want to be there.
"Listen, I can't stand here and wait. Sawyer, take care of Miss Steele. Don't let her in until you have the all clear. I am sure Taylor is overreacting. She can't get into the apartment."
"No, Christian-you have to stay with me," she protests.
As much is it pains me to do so, I remove my arm from around her shoulders and step slightly away from her.
"Do as you're told, Anastasia. Wait here. Sawyer?"
Ignoring the anxious look on his face, I step through the door to the apartment which he opens for me.
I meet the other men at the service elevators.
"What the hell are you doing in here, Mr. Grey?" Taylor demands upon seeing me, "It's not safe."
"I'm sure you're overreacting, Taylor," I tell him, my voice surprisingly calm, "Do a sweep and we'll see. I want to be here if there is the slightest chance she's here. So that there isn't a repeat of last time." I lift a brow at him.
I see the consensus on his face. He agrees with me there.
Finally he says, "You stay with me."
"Of course," I snap. Taylor trying to take charge is unfamiliar and unwelcome, but I know he means well.
We search every room of the apartment and, of course, come up empty. There is no one here.
"You're okay to bring Miss Steele inside," Taylor consents as he quietly shuts the playroom door behind us. "We'll do a closer sweep of the cupboards and closets, but I'm-"
"Overreacting," I interrupt him.
Taylor, eyes still tense around the corners, shoulders squared, sweeps the hall. "Anything to keep you and Miss Steele safe, Sir."
Discomfiture makes its presence in my abdomen. He hasn't expressed anything like that before.
All I can do is nod, and turn away from him, headed back downstairs.
Alone now, walking through the well-lit main room, I feel an unprecedented chill run up my spine. Just leftover hysteria. Nothing to worry about. She's not here.
I pull open the door, and am met with the end of Sawyer's gun, pointed right at my head.
"All clear," I inform him, frowning. Seriously, dude? You were going to shoot me? I watch him re-holster the gun and step aside to let Ana in.
"Taylor is overreacting," I tell her, offering her my hand, from where she hasn't moved an inch.
She just stands there, staring at me, eyes like saucers, lips slightly parted. Her eyes look a little wet, and suddenly it dawns on me that she's been terrified out of her mind for the past however minutes, since I've been inside. Despite the fact that I knew that I was safe, and that there was no danger, she sure as hell didn't.
Pity, concern and shame flood my chest at the look on her face. I didn't mean to worry her.
"It's all right, baby," I assure her, stepping forward to fold her in my arms. I kiss the top of her head. "Come on, you're tired. Bed."
"I was so worried," she murmurs against my chest.
"I know," I croon, "We're all jumpy."
"Honestly," she says, "your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey." I can hear the sarcasm in her voice. At the sound of it, I feel myself relax. She's fine. She's not going to go into shock; she's not going to find any of this too overwhelming. Up until now, I hadn't realized that had been a fear of mine.
"Yes, they are," I agree, remembering Elena and her uncalled for threat toward Ana. Damn that woman. I'm going to need to make time to call her in the morning, before I take Ana sailing. The memory of that particular idea sends a thrill through me. I'm excited to show her yet another of the things I deeply enjoy doing. I know I'll enjoy it even more deeply when she's there with me.
I let her go, but keep her hand, and guide her through the door, into the great room.
"Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards," I inform her, "I don't think she's here."
"Why would she be here?" she asks.
"Exactly."
"Could she get in?"
"I don't see how," I tell her, "But Taylor is overcautious sometimes." I think back to what he said in the upstairs hallway, and that itchy, uncomfortable feeling makes its presence known again. Is Taylor becoming more than just staff-but a friend?
"Have you searched your playroom?" she asks softly. Her low voice brings me back from my introspective thoughts regarding Taylor and our possibly budding friendship.
Sudden anxiety peaks and I glance at her, frowning. "Yes, it's locked-but Taylor and I checked."
How will she feel about the fact that I stepped in there again? How do I feel about it? I hadn't really paid attention when I'd been in there; I'd been focused on different matters...
"Do you want a drink or anything?" I ask her.
"No." And I see the exhaustion overcome her once more, shoulders sagging, eyelids heavy. She's had a long day.
"Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted."
We head into my bedroom, and she puts her bag on the chest of drawers. I take a moment to appreciate how it looks, her little, feminine bag on my bureau. I watch her pop it open, to empty it. She pulls out Elena's letter.
"Here." She hands it to me. "I don't know if you want to read this. I want to ignore it."
Is she giving me permission? I suppose so. The curiosity that has been killing me precedes everything else, and I take it, scanning it quickly.
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I may have misjudged you. And you have definitely misjudged me. Call me if you need to fill in any of the blanks-we could have lunch.
Christian doesn't want me talking to you, but I would be more than happy to help. Don't get me wrong, I approve, believe me-but so help me, if you hurt him... He's been hurt enough.
Call me: (206) 279-6261
Mrs Robinson.
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I feel my jaw tense as I finish reading.
"I'm not sure what blanks she can fill in," I mutter, feeling suddenly apprehensive. She could tell Ana a lot of things I rather she wouldn't know, and ruin it all for us. "I need to talk to Taylor. Let me unzip your dress."
"Are you going to call the police about the car?" she inquires, turning her back to me.
I push all of her hair over one shoulder, exposing that gentle curve of smooth, pale back to me, skimming my fingers reverently down the span of what I can reach, and undo her zipper.
"No," I answer, "I don't want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don't want them here." Too much publicity. "We just have to double our efforts to find her." I kiss her gently on the bare shoulder. "Go to bed," I whisper, and leave the room, mostly to abate my desire to take her again.
She's too tempting, but she's obviously knackered, and needs to rest.
And I need to take care of a few things.
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I spend the next hour and a half or so in my study, doing everything I can to gain an idea on where Leila may be.
I talk to Welch for over an hour, and answer some late night work e-mails, mostly to distract myself from the stress of it all.
We need to find her. We just need to.
It's nearly two when my Blackberry buzzes on my desk, beside the keyboard. Picking it up, I see that it's Elena who is calling-at nearly two in the morning.
"I don't know why you're calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you," I say in way of greeting.
Elena is not used to my hostility-toward her, at least. It seems to take her a moment to recover. Finally, she murmurs, "I'm sorry, Christian. I can leave a message. I just wanted to tell you something."
"Well, you can tell me now. You don't have to leave a message." The sooner we get this argument over with, the sooner I can move on to more important things. As much as my anger and annoyance tell me this is the most important thing right now, it isn't.
"Please, Christian, just listen to me-"
"No," I snap, "you listen. I asked you, and now I'm telling you. Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?"
"Of course I do," she whines, "But I care about you, Christian, as a friend..."
"I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me?"
"Yes... Yes, I'm hearing you."
"Good. Goodnight." I hang up, and slam the phone down on my desk, a little too hard. I run my hand through my hair and sink into my desk chair.
There's a hesitant knock on the door.
"What?" I snap, not looking up, dropping my head into my hands.
Expecting it to be Taylor or one of the other security details, I glance up, and suddenly, when I see it's Ana, I can feel the angry glare on my face. Instantly, it dissipates when I see her.
She stands in the doorway, in just my t-shirt. Her long legs are distracting, and I feel my eyes sweep up and down her body.
"You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia," I whisper, "But even in my t-shirt you look beautiful."
"I missed you," she says, "Come to bed."
I'm suddenly overcome by heart-restricting awe. She is so beautiful, and I am so, so fucking thankful for her. That she's agreed to come back into my life after the unspeakable, even through all this shit with 'my exes' as she calls them. She's a beautiful, beautiful woman, not just physically... And I don't deserve her.
My heart plummets when the realization hits.
"Do you know what you mean to me?" I ask her, standing. "If something happened to you, because of me..." The thought is unbearable, and an unexplained lump rises in my throat. God, all these emotions... I... I feel so deeply for her. She has turned my life around, she is meaning for my life, now, and I don't know how I'd get on without her. I honestly, truly to god, don't think I could.
"Nothing's going to happen to me," she croons. She reaches up, and her fingers, smooth and warm, are on my face, running through the shadow of stubble on my cheek. "Your beard grows quickly," she hums.
She runs her fingers lower, along my bottom lip, and down my throat, stopping at the boundary line.
As she does so, I examine her face, trying to make sense of the awe and wonder I see in her eyes, as if she's seeing the fireworks show when she looks into my face. I don't understand it.
Awareness spikes as her fingers move again, and she runs the single tip of one along the line the lipstick makes.
I clamp my eyes shut, feeling my respiratory rate quicken, my heart beat faster... Fear, lust, both of the emotions colliding, they lick up the walls of my belly, set my bloodstream on fire. Adrenaline spikes through my veins.
Hyper-aware of her every movement, I feel her fingers brush over my shirt, down to the next button, the top two already unfastened.
"I'm not going to touch you," she breathes, "I just want to undo your shirt."
My eyes flash open, regarding her, heart pounding wildly, breath shallow, as she very, very cautiously, releases each button from its hole, being sure to hold the material of my shirt away from my skin so she doesn't make direct contact, I think.
I can't focus on what's going on in my head, but the different sensations riot through me, lust mistaken for fear, fear mistaken for lust-I'm not sure. Each in turn raises my body temperature several degrees, quickens my heart and breathing rate, clouds my mind from coherent thought...
Oh, I want this so badly, too badly. I want it too much, and maybe that's why I'm so afraid of it, been afraid it for so long. Because wanting something means having the potential to lose it.
As I think this she undoes the fourth button and smiles coyly up at me.
"Back on home territory," she says, and I can feel the relief that wells up, when I realize that we're on safe ground again.
She skims her finger along my belly, just above my navel.
She pulls my shirt open, and redirects her attention to my cufflinks, removing them carefully. I stare down at her hard, her eyes so focused, that v between her eyebrows slightly pronounced, as she tries so very hard not to touch me.
Something about it saddens me.
"Can I take your shirt off?" she finally asks.
I nod, silently, still overcome by the overriding emotions, unable to make sense of what to do with them.
She lifts her hands and shoves the shirt over my shoulders. I slip the cuffs over my hands, and drop the shirt on the floor.
Clarity returns vivaciously, and I smirk down at her.
"What about my pants, Miss Steele?"
"In your bedroom. I want you in your bed," she says.
"Do you, now?" I tease her, "Miss Steele, you are insatiable."
"I can't think why." Her fingers fold over mine, and she tugs me through the door, abandoning my study, my Blackberry and the lights on behind us. She takes me into the bedroom, where the temperature has dropped several degrees, very notable in my shirtless state.
I glance over at the balcony door, which is cracked open.
"You opened the balcony door?" I ask her, confused.
"No," she says, obviously queried as well.
Suddenly, realization seems to hit her, and as she stares up at me, lips parted, I watch her face pale so suddenly and so severely, I'm sure she's going to faint.
"What?" My tone is much harsher than I've intended. Immediately, the lust is gone, replaced with unbridled tension.
"When I woke..." she explains quietly, "there was someone in here. I thought it was my imagination."
"What?" I say again. Horror fills me, and I walk quickly to the balcony door, peering out. There is no one there. I step back into my bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind me. "Are you sure? Who?" My voice is barely manageable. I want to yell.
"A woman, I think," she says, "It was dark. I'd only just woken up."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
And here I'd thought Taylor was overreacting. All the while she's been here, possibly, or she got in after the sweep was done. But how? Fucking how?
How did she slip past our security?
"Get dressed," I snap at Ana, "Now!"
"My clothes are upstairs."
I yank open one of the dresser drawers and pull out a pair of sweatpants, tossing them at her.
"Put these on."
They are far too big, but I don't fucking care right now. She needs clothes on, because we need to leave, and I'm not taking the time to go all the way upstairs.
I pull a t-shirt on over my head, realizing my Blackberry is still in the study-fuck!-and stride over to the bedside, where there is a phone on the stand. I dial Taylor's quarters.
"Mr. Grey," he answers groggily.
"She's still fucking here."
In five seconds flat, Taylor and Reynolds enter the bedroom.
"Someone was standing at the foot of the bed when Ana woke. The balcony door was open."
"How long ago?" Taylor asks her.
"About ten minutes," she answers, something in her voice shameful, but I don't have time to focus on that right now. She can't possibly think this is her fault.
My mind has organized itself into a series of very organized files, no panic allowed. I'm suddenly thinking of all the things that need done. First things first is getting Anastasia to a safe place, wherever that is. Another is Gail. She is off, but will return soon.
"She knows the apartment like the back of her hand. I am taking Anastasia away now. She's hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?"
"Tomorrow evening, sir," Taylor reports.
"She's not to return until this place is secure. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. Will you be going to Bellevue?" Taylor asks.
"I'm not leading this problem to my parents." How stupid does he think I am? "Book me somewhere."
"Yes. I'll call you."
"Aren't we all overreacting slightly?" Ana interjects now.
I glare at her. Does she really not understand the severity of the situation?
"She may have a gun," I remind her.
"Christian," Ana argues, "she was standing at the end of the bed. She could have shot me then if that's what she wanted to do."
Nearly uncontrollable rage clouds my vision at her words. I cannot let myself imagine that.
"I'm not prepared to take the risk," I tell her, and turn to Taylor. "Taylor, Anastasia needs shoes."
While Taylor goes to fetch Ana a pair of more sensible shoes and Ryan guards her, I step into my closet to pack some things, and change into a pair of jeans and pinstriped blazer. I grab a denim jacket for Anastasia and, upon emerging, drape it over her shoulders.
The panic is stirring now, and I just need to get us out of here.
"Come," I say to Ana, gripping her hand and practically dragging her from the room.
"I can't believe she could hide somewhere in here," Ana mutters.
I don't glance at her as I stride through the great room. "It's a big place. You haven't seen it all yet."
"Why don't you just call her... Tell her you want to talk to her?"
"Anastasia, she's unstable, and she may be armed." I'm aware my voice sounds a little irritable.
"So we just run?" she asks dubiously.
"For now-yes."
"Supposing she tries to shoot Taylor?" Ana points out.
"Taylor knows and understands guns," I tell her, trying to hide the disgust in my tone. I hate guns. "He'll be quicker with a gun than she is." If it ever had to come to that. Which I hope it doesn't.
"Ray was in the army," Ana informs me, "He taught me to shoot."
I feel my eyebrows lift in surprise, and turn on her, utterly unable to imagine Ana holding a firearm. "You, with a gun?"
"Yes," she says, chin raised, sounding defensive. "I can shoot, Mr. Grey, so you'd better beware. It's not just crazy ex-subs you need to worry about."
As ever, in the most unexpected time and way, Ana elicits amusement in me.
"I'll bear that in mind, Miss Steele."
I am ever grateful for it, for her ability to bring joy to my life when I find it impossible otherwise.
Taylor intercepts us in the foyer, passing over a small suitcase packed with things for Ana, and her black Converse sneakers.
She smiles at him in thanks, and he answers it quickly and politely.
In the next moment, she wraps her arms around him, hugging him tightly, for a brief moment.
I feel the shock up to my hair follicles, glancing away awkwardly.
"Be careful," I hear her tell him, and again I'm reminded of the brief encounter in the upstairs hallway.
Taylor has always, of course, been my security of choice, but could he be more than that? Not just to me, but to Ana as well?
"Yes, Miss Steele."
I frown at Ana, and then give Taylor a questioning look, who's lips perk up at the corners ever-so-slightly. He adjusts his tie and says nothing.
I let it go. "Let me know where I'm going."
Taylor produces a credit card from his wallet.
"You might want to use this when you get there."
I nod, taking his personal credit card, ignoring that annoying emotion that bubbles in my chest at this thoughtful-but logical-gesture. "Good thinking."
Ryan appears. "Sawyer and Reynolds found nothing," he reports to Taylor.
"Accompany Mr. Grey and Miss Steele to the garage."
Ryan does so, and when we descend into the bowels of the building, the doors open to haunting silence.
The only sound is the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, and it's unsettling.
Quickly, I lead Ana to the R8, helping her into the passenger seat. I slip our bags into the trunk, trying not to look at the Audi, which is a disaster beside us.
I see her staring at it when I climb into the driver's seat.
"A replacement will arrive on Monday," I assure her.
"How could she have known it was my car?" Ana asks distantly.
I glance at her, feeling unsure. It was the car I got for all my subs.
"She had an Audi A3," I tell her, "I buy one for all my submissives-it's one of the safest cars in its class."
"So not much of a graduation present, then," she mutters, a little bitterly I think.
"Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been my submissive, so technically, it is a graduation present."
I pull out of the parking space and speed to the exit, punching in the code to release us.
"Are you still hoping?" she barely whispers.
Before I can answer her, the in-car phone rings.
"Grey," I answer.
"Fairmont Olympic," Taylor reports, "In my name."
"Thank you, Taylor," I tell him, and add, "And, Taylor, be careful."
There's a moment of stunned silence, I think, on the other end. Finally he says, "Yes, sir."
I hang up, pulling out onto the main street. I head up fifth, toward the I-5. The Fairmont Olympic is in Seattle, but I want to make sure we're not being followed first. Fear causes me to push the peddle as far as it will go, when we hit the interstate. I realize it's a little reckless, but I'm ignoring that for now. I glance in the rearview mirror constantly, keeping an eye out for any following cars.
Am I still hoping? That she'll be my submissive?
No, not in the least. At first, certainly. It was the only thing I'd ever known in the way of a relationship with a woman. Still is, in some ways.
All things are new with Anastasia. In a way, she's made me a new man, opened my eyes to things I couldn't see before, taken off the blinders. She's opened up my world to color, and clearer sight than ever before.
She has never been the woman I expected, or thought she'd be from first impressions, but that's okay. She's unexpected and challenging and brilliant and beautiful and witty, and brilliantly intelligent. She's more than I ever could have asked for, ever could have hoped for.
I realize that I haven't answered her question, and I glance over at her. She's staring passively out the side window, and I find myself wondering what she's thinking.
"No," I say, "It's not what I hope for, not anymore. I thought that was obvious." My tone is gentle and low. Part of me is saddened by the fact that she would think that was what I still hope for. I stopped hoping for that the moment she left me.
She looks at me now, her eyes deep and dark. She blinks and wraps my denim jacket tighter around her.
"I worry that, you know... That I'm not enough," she murmurs.
"You're more than enough," I assure her, annoyance flaring at her severe lack of self-esteem. She's the best thing that ever happened to me, can't she see that? "For the love of God, Anastasia, what do I have to do?"
Something flashes in her eyes, and for a moment I think she wants to say something else than the words that spill from her lips next.
"Why did you think I'd leave when I told you Dr. Flynn had told me all there was to know about you?"
I sigh deeply, closing my eyes for a moment, despite the danger it poses. This was the question I was hoping, praying, she wouldn't ask.
For a long time, I don't say anything, trying to figure out how to form my answer, in my head.
Because I'm a shell of a man, scum of the earth.
Because I measure up to nothing.
Because my past is dark, and the events and memories that define me are darker.
"You cannot begin to understand the depths of my depravity, Anastasia," I finally say, "And it's not something I want to share with you."
"And you really think I'd leave if I knew?" she inquires, her voice disbelieving, as if it's a completely ridiculous notion. "Do you think so little of me?"
"I know you'll leave."
"Christian... I think that's very unlikely," she argues, "I can't imagine being without you."
How can she say that? "You left me once," I point out, flinching internally at the darkness it brings on, "I don't want to go there again."
"Elena said she saw you last Saturday," Ana whispers.
"She didn't." I frown. Why the hell would she lie to Ana like that? If she wants things to go as swimmingly for us as she says.
"You didn't go to see her when I left?" Ana asks, and it's clear this is news to her.
"No," I snap, suddenly perturbed. It's directed toward Anastasia, but I know it should really be directed at Elena. "I just told you I didn't-and I don't like to be doubted. I didn't go anywhere last weekend. I sat and made the glider you gave me. Took me forever." My voice fades toward the end, and I remember the long hours spent in my office, putting that model glider together, not eating, surviving solely on coffee, ignoring work for the first time in my life... It was if every fiber of my being depended on putting that glider together.
"Contrary to what Elena thinks, I don't rush to her with all of my problems, Anastasia," I say to distract myself from the dark memories of-can it only have been?-last weekend. "I don't rush to anybody-I'm not much of a talker."
"Carrick told me you didn't talk for two years," she says quietly.
"Did he, now?" I feel my mouth press into a firm line. I feel that oh-so-familiar wall go up, guarding everybody-and maybe even myself-from my emotions.
"I kind of pumped him for information," she admits, having the decency to sound embarrassed. When I glance over, I see that she's staring at her hands.
"So what else did Daddy say?"
"He said your mom was the doctor who examined you when you were brought into the hospital. After you were discovered in your apartment. He said learning the piano helped. And Mia."
I feel fondness break through the wall, crumbling it at the mention of my sister.
I feel my lips, from their hard line, curl into a soft smile.
"She was about six months old when she arrived. I was thrilled, Elliot less so. He'd already had to contend with my arrival. She was perfect."
I remember the day she came home, that tiny cherubic face, and the humongous smile she gave me, the way she gripped my two fingers tighter than I thought possible. "Less so now, of course." I recall her cock-blocking at the ball.
Ana giggles, the sound stunning me with its beauty.
"You find that amusing, Miss Steele?" I ask her, joy filling my heart like a helium balloon at the sound of her laughter.
"She seemed determined to keep us apart," she says.
I can't help but laugh. "Yes, she's quite accomplished." I reach over, squeezing her knee softly through the baggy material of the sweatpants. "But we got there in the end."
Realizing I haven't done it for awhile, I glance in the rear view mirror. Relief floods me when I don't see anyone behind us.
"I don't think we've been followed." I take the first exit off the I-5 and turn toward central Seattle.
When we're stopped at a set of traffic lights, Ana says, "Can I ask you something about Elena?"
I am automatically cautious, and I glance at her. "If you must."
"You told me ages ago that she loved you in a way you found acceptable. What did you mean?"
The caution mounts. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me," she says.
"I was out of control," I explain, "I couldn't bear to be touched. I can't bear it now. For a fourteen, fifteen-year-old adolescent boy with hormones raging, it was a difficult time. She showed me a way to let off steam."
"Mia said you were a brawler," Ana indulges me once more.
"Christ, what is it with my loquacious family?" I blurt. "Actually-it's you." Pulling up to another set of red lights, I turn and narrow my eyes at her. "You inveigle information out of people." Teasingly, I shake my head at her in disdain.
"Mia volunteered that information," she defends herself, "In fact, she was very forthcoming. She was worried you'd start a brawl in the tent if you didn't win me at the auction."
I want to laugh. "Oh, baby, there was no danger of that. There was no way I would let anyone else dance with you." Frankly, I would have bid a million dollars before I let that happen.
"You let Dr. Flynn," she points out.
"He's always the exception to the rule."
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The Cascade Suite has two bedrooms, a formal dining room, and a grand piano. There is a log fire burning in the main room.
"Well, Mrs. Taylor," I joke, "I don't know about you, but I'd really like a drink." I lock the door behind us.
I stride into the bedroom, depositing our bags on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, then take Ana back into the main room. She warms her hands at the fire as I prepare us each an Armagnac.
I join her by the fire-which is sumptuously warm and welcome-and hand her one of the brandy glasses.
"It's been quite a day, huh?" I ask her.
She nods, and I appraise her face closely, wishing she'd tell me what she's thinking.
"I'm okay. How about you?" she whispers.
"Well, right now I'd like to drink this and then, if you're not too tired, take you to bed and lose myself in you."
A hint of a smile flashes in her eyes. "I think that can be arranged, Mr. Taylor." She smiles shyly at me and bites down on her lip.
I remove my socks and shoes. "Mrs. Taylor, stop biting your lip."
She does, cheeks going pink as she stares down into her glass.
I take a sip and watch her, that lovely shade of pink on her face, and I am again overwhelmed by the strength of her. She really is okay. Totally fine, actually.
She glances up at me.
"You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today-or yesterday, rather-you're not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You're very strong."
"You're a very good reason to stay," she mumbles, and her words make my heart soar and clench accordingly, "I told you, Christian, I'm not going anywhere, no matter what you've done. You know how I feel about you."
I feel my mouth twist, and my brow crease. I don't believe her. What does she see in me? After all I've done, all that I am?
I don't deserve this amazing woman, I don't deserve her appreciation, let alone her company.
"Where are you going to hang Jose's portraits of me?" she asks, and I know she's trying to distract me.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Circumstances," I tell her, hiding most of the truth. I'm planning on asking her to move in with me, I just don't know how to do it. It only makes sense, right? To know that this is temporary deflates me. I don't think I could go back to living separately from her. I suppose I'll let her decide where she wants to hang them, if she agrees to move in with me. And I really hope she will. "His show's not over yet, so I don't have to decide straightaway."
She tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes at me. Trying to intimidate me, I suppose.
"You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I'm saying nothing."
"I may torture the truth from you," she threatens.
I feel an eyebrow lift. "Really, Anastasia, I don't think you should make promises you can't fulfill."
Something in her eyes goes stony, determined. She puts her glass on the fireplace mantel, and much to my surprise, reaches over and plucks mine out of my hand, placing it beside hers.
"We'll just have to see about that," she mumbles.
She takes my hand, and pulls me toward the bedroom. I go along, more than willingly.